S i g i f r i e d || F l e m i n g || D 5 (fin)

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a p p e a r a n c e

Scrummy roguish lookin' fella with a near-constant five o'clock shadow squibling his non-prominent, punchable jawline. There's a hardness in his eyes that's hard to miss, from seeing too much, too quickly, and without having the proper time to grieve. He isn't a man of contrasts. There's nothing stark or forbidding or readily noticed. If it wasn't for the odd assortment of scars skittering across the left side of his jaw, neck, shoulder, upper and lower arm, then you could probably say he was that odd fellow sitting on his porch, minding his own business while fiddling with his shotgun. Sig is at the peak of his strength. He's in his golden years, soaring in the clouds with a creaky back he's prematurely gotten from landing on it so many times. Standing at a solid 5 feet and a handful of inches, He's not some hulking oaf, grunting like a gorilla; all brawn and no brains. He's made of leaner slates, built for endurance and lengthy treks in the mountains – two parts goat, one part vest-wearing animal of the feline variety. Think he bothers keeping himself mildly presentable? Nope. He'd rather aggravate you with his stubble by rubbing his cheeks all over your prim baby-clean face.

The man's harsh dimples create little crooks beside his nose whenever he smiles, turning up a little at the edges – and if you glance quick enough, they look a little like puckered scars; little knife-point slivers. He's got a thin covering of hair that resides on his scalp. Tall, dark, handsome; those adjectives might have been used to describe Sig in the good old days, but in a harsh world where men and women claw to the top of mountain for material objects, he's become a shady phantom of his youth. Suffering harsh-awakenings and bloody circumstances has a tendency to put aesthetic appearances to the bottom of the totem pole. Though he might have been intimidating in his younger, more nimble days, Sig still has an impressive collection of scars speckling his lanky body like spiralling constellations and white-splintered trophies. It leads you to wonder what kind of trouble he could be to deal with, or how far he was willing to take things.

Slather on a thick helping of beetling cheekbones, pronounced angles and heavy eyebrows, as well. If there's one thing that's readily noticed, it's Sig's haunted blue eyes. Murky little peepers. They're settled into sunken eye sockets, seemingly accursed with sleepless circles – either that, or he's been punched in the face one too many times, and bears the bruises every day. What does this boy like tom wear on his misadventures, I hear you ask? Mostly hoodies that swamp his frame, beanies that cover his lack of hair and worn out baggy jeans.

p e r s o n a l i t y

Sig's been called a fierce, bloodthirsty monster, but these particular tales are exaggerated, at least to the point where it could be said that he wouldn't necessarily strike before being provoked first. There's worse things he could be called than killer, ruthless sonnuvabitch, murderer. In broader terms, Sven's described as an obscure, mysterious man who doesn't take shit from anyone unless he likes them well enough to let things slide. Need something done for you? He'll probably do it if you've proven yourself to be at least a little handy. If you're as useless as a tit on a bull, then don't go expecting anything from him. He's not evil and he's certainly not a bad guy, but his pessimism is unmeasurable and he can be particularly bad-tempered when it comes to stupidity, naivety, and gullible folk. Profoundly intimidating? Probably. He's a dangerous person to be around, and a fantastic ally to have when you're backs against the wall, in need of sharp eyes to keep your sorry butt from frying. Weathering the storm, or stomping down the unbeaten path, has always been the waya Sig has dealt with things. Fully capable of taking much pressure heaped onto his shoulders without so much as complaining – it's far more difficult to ask for directions, or seek help, then to turn away and tough it out on his own.

Highly unpredictable. The Sig's pretty damn nonchalant when anyone touches on personal subjects. It's only when someone's intentionally pushing his buttons that he reacts – violently, and he always ends up completely tipping the scales of what was extended. Overboard much? He doesn't see it that way. If someone's willing to tango with him, then they probably understand what the consequences will be. His unique ability is to mess with people's heads in a really unpleasant fashion. Feeling awkward? He'll intentionally grind your gears – but he still manages to keep it light and impersonal. It keeps him spry, keeps him feeling young. Pragmatic, straight-forward, undeniably blunt. His tolerance for large groups is pretty ignominious. For short periods of time, Sig fares well with said groups, then when he's had enough and needs to recharge, he'll disappear for a few hours and reappear as if nothing happened. Trust has always been a big issue. He keeps himself well hidden, shearing off personal questions before they're even voiced. People don’t need to know his business, and he'd much prefer keeping them out of his hair. The less that is known about him, the better. Knowledge is power, and that power can make you weak. He's more protective of himself and his people rather than any material objects he may possess, and if the former is threatened, Sig can get downright vicious. No one hurts his people, otherwise they get their heads bitten off.

Figuratively? Literally? Who knows. Sarcastic, moody, snarky. Sig has a hair-trigger, unpredictable temper when you touch on certain subjects, and godlike patience when other things should actually bother him. Confrontational? He'll get in anyone's face without batting an eye. Courage and fearlessness are two very different things and if there's anything that he knows best, it's that it's far easier to be brave for someone else than for himself.

H i s t o r y

How his parents met he never knew. His father is never one to tell the truth—at least not all of it and is much too fond of half-truths for Sig to ever get the real story out of him. Small, nonchalant fibs to keep a blubbering child quiet. Most importantly, he doesn't remember her. The one person who is supposed to be the most prevalent in his life. Orphans have always said they remembered their mothers smell: daffodils, daisies, dandelions. Beautiful flowers that had no names. They didn't need any names because they reminded them of her. He smelled nothing. Only an empty need to fabricate something, anything for the sake of remembering something. He tried to imagine that she was alive, whole and real, and with him right now. It was impossible without those small sensory secrets. To make himself believe, even just for a second. It would've been enough. He never saw his mother's soft hair and never understood the likeness between him and his father, not without her cooing words, not without her guidance to trace the contours of their adjacent noses.

Muddled by frequent, most often unpleasant changes, caused by things he could not prevent as a child, Sig was shifted around different households like an unwanted box of newspapers. Like a box of puppies quietly set on the curb, promptly forgotten because it was too damn hard to take care of anyway. He was a foster-child, an orphan, a discarded human being with nowhere else to turn but to the ones that could provide shelter, no matter how many times he was relocated. Even if he'd wanted to live differently, if he'd known that it wasn't the sort of life that anyone would have wanted, he didn't have any place to go, or any idea how to get there. The world outside of his quaint cottages, and shelters, remained a mystery to be discovered, to be viewed from the other side of a windowpane. Too far to actually experience, taste, see. He didn't, and to small degrees still doesn't, understand how people function in normal society.

Things weren't always this way. His mother suffered from vascular dementia, while his abusive father did little to care for her, him, or his two other siblings – they were treated with a mild neglect, akin to what one would subject a cat who wouldn't stop appearing on the porch. Hardly staying in the house longer than he needed to, long enough to force pills down his wife's throat and frighten his children, before he stalked out of the house. Sometimes, he'd come back drunk, swear at them, then lay all the blame on their mother. She wouldn't remember, anyway. She hardly remembered where she was, who they were, why exactly she was there in the first place. It was hard enough, but Sig was the oldest, and automatically dubbed the caregiver while his deadbeat dad was away. They were wading in beer cans, stale cigarettes, and wrappers, powders and small vials. School, for a little while, seemed like his only reprieve, his getaway from responsibility, because at least there were other parents that looked after him, his sister, and his brother.

It wasn't long after – maybe, around his eleventh birthday, when they were all taken away, coaxed between two kindly peacekeepers, and separated from each other into different shelters. He was allowed to send them letters, but it would be easier to be relocated separately. Younger kids generally had an easier go at finding a forever home. New mother, new father, new sisters, new brothers, new city, new place, new grandparents. Every few years he was moved again, because of some behavioural issue, as if he was some kind of defective toy. He stole things. He acted out. He gnashed his teeth, acted like an crazed animal. Because he preferred foster-shelters with it's twenty girls and boys, all bound by the same secret understanding that only orphans shared. Then, Sig got too old to act so childish. He came. His new-something. Mentor, father-figure, friend? Mother, father, something-else. Coaxed him out of bad habits yeah, that really worked and shoved him off to school.
No matter how much he pushed, desperately trying to make the man tire of him, because eventually they always do, the man wouldn't budge. Not even an inch. He was a shotgun handcrafter, and Sig was fascinated by his creations. Designs etched into cold metal, double barrels, machine guns. This started his strange obsession for guns.